


Fraternizing with Francis

by grey2510



Series: Convos with Crowley [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Universe, Demons, Gen, Hell, Ruler of Hell Crowley (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: Crowley has a chat with the soul in Hell who goes by Jack the Ripper.
Series: Convos with Crowley [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/701880
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20
Collections: SPNColdestHits





	Fraternizing with Francis

The man who was not Jack the Ripper had been promoted four times in the last two years. Crowley read over the report and frowned. There were more than a few souls in Hell who never transitioned from soul (or ghost, if they ever made it topside again) to demon, but they tended to be the poor bastards who had ended up down below for rather mediocre sins and deals—the psychopaths and sadists were most of the way there when they arrived and barely needed the nudge to relinquish their last shreds of humanity, and the ones who had sold their souls for "noble" causes were surprisingly easy to convert. Perhaps it was the impulsivity that had led them here to begin with that made them vulnerable to manipulations and coercions, maybe it was the shattering realization of just what going to Hell meant, the sudden clarity that they had overpaid for what they had bargained for on Earth. 

There were always exceptions, of course; there were some who came to Hell for petty mortal sins and gave in to their baser instincts, who walked away from the rack with black or red eyes before a century was up. Indeed, many of them ended up with red eyes: they had gone through life looking for deals and loopholes—who better for the Crossroads? Most people assumed that Crowley himself was one such case, and he had no intention of disabusing them of this fact. Let them think that he sold his soul for a little more below the belt. Being underestimated hadn't failed him yet.

But Jack the Ripper was no mediocre sinner. He should have been an easy convert, a black-eyed bastard to join the ranks of torturers.

And yet, he was stubbornly not a demon. There was only one explanation: he was not Jack the Ripper.

Francis Tumblety, as he'd been known in life, had at least had the sense to ingratiate himself with the demons in the Pit well enough to become almost something of a pet and errand boy. 

As much as Crowley detested the minutiae of running Hell, he knew it could be his undoing to ignore it entirely. Besides, Mr. Tumblety might come in handy. It never hurt to have more connections and threads in the spiderweb.

Naturally, it wouldn't do to summon not-Jack the Ripper openly. One never knows who might be watching, who might wonder why the King of Hell wanted to speak with a lost soul in Hell, especially one who wandered the Pit with ease and rubbed elbows with some of the most powerful, or at least cruellest, demons in Hell.

Luckily, it had been awhile since Crowley had strolled through the Pit. Surprise inspection, keep everyone on their toes. Or dangling by them.

The Pit was probably less Pit-like than most people imagine. Sure, there were the traditional torture racks, the fires and sulphur, the screams of agony. But that was for the low-level techniques. For some souls, being flayed alive over and over again was enough. But there was no art in that, no craft. It was a one-size fits all approach, but anyone who deigns to buy off the rack (no pun intended) knows that one-size fits all is a misnomer at best. If revenge is a dish best served cold, then torture is a suit best made bespoke. 

Flanked by three minions he didn't exactly trust but knew followed whoever was currently in charge, Crowley descended into the Pit. He nodded randomly at demons over their racks and arched an eyebrow at others, as though silently judging their technique. There was no method or rationale; best to leave them guessing and squabbling amongst themselves in competition to please him. 

He paused beside one rack and approached the demon torturing a man with the slimy look of a CEO. He narrowed his eyes as the demon noticed him and stopped her work, the knife she was wielding still dripping blood over her victim.

"Your Highness," the demon said, averting her eyes to the ground.

Crowley snapped his fingers, never letting his gaze waver, and two of his minions stepped forward, grabbing her by the arms, stilling her struggles.

"My lord, why—"

"Do not pretend to innocence. You're simply lucky I intend to end this quickly. I may not be so merciful to your friends."

He drew an angel blade from inside his jacket and plunged it through her middle. Orange light sparked throughout her body until she collapsed. The minions dropped her. Crowley wiped the blade with a cloth handed to him by the third demon in his retinue. Black eyes stared at the scene from around the Pit.

"Back to work," he said, calmly, but with enough edge to his voice to make it clear that his rage was not entirely gone. Woe be to the demon who crossed him next. 

They returned to their victims, and screams filled the burning air once more.

In truth, he had no idea who the demon now crumpled on the floor was. She could have been a model worker, for all he knew. But there were enough factions and plots in Hell that making an example of an assumed traitor wouldn't go amiss. 

The whole reason for this excursion and show, the pet ghost, was not in the main part of the Pit, however, and so Crowley turned towards one of the wings branching off from the Pit proper. The report said that Tumblety was currently serving Alal, who specialized in seducing men in order to eventually break them. 

In fact, that alone should have tipped them all to Tumblety's true identity, especially when there was a whole section dedicated to the kinds of cruelties that would have satisfied Jack the Ripper's proclivities right next door.

He entered a room to find Alal looking as though they had just walked out of a Bond film. It was one of Alal's preferred forms; the demon had been in Hell long enough to master the ability to take human form at will, to craft a form perfectly suited to the current victim's deepest desires. Most demons who had not acquired a meatsuit attempted gross approximations of their human forms, or developed entirely new personas, but few could shift as easily as Alal.

Their eyes lifted in Crowley's direction, though they did not rise from the lap of the man they were practically sitting on, nor did they stop seductively tracing long red nails down the man's arm.

"Crowley," they greeted in a husky voice, foregoing the formalities. In any other demon, Crowley might have objected, but Alal had been around since practically the beginning; they had no ambitions beyond their little empire. As long as Crowley left them to do their work, they would happily serve. "What brings you here?"

He looked around the swanky and expensively decorated room and smirked. "Don't tell me this isn't the set from an actual Bond film."

"An amalgamation," Alal allowed. They turned to the man, who was entirely mesmerized by the apparent woman on his lap and completely oblivious to Crowley's presence. "Jonathan here is a man of simple tastes, isn't that right?"

"Yeah…" Jonathan breathed out, eyes glazed over. 

"What is it you want, Crowley?" 

"Nothing, simply admiring a master at work."

Amal looked up, arched a brow in disbelief, but didn't contradict him. "You're welcome to join, if you want."

"Perhaps next time." 

Just as Crowley prepared to make his exit, as the soul he sought was clearly not there, there was a knock at the door.

"Enter," Alal said.

"Room service," Tumblety announced as he came through the door. Apparently the Victorian frock coat he'd presumably died in served well enough as hotel staff attire in Alal's little play. He wheeled a cart with covered dishes on it into the room, but if Crowley had to guess, there weren't chocolate-covered strawberries underneath the shining silver.

"Leave it," Alal said, and Tumblety nodded as he began to bow and back out of the room.

"You there, ghost." Tumblety's eyes widened when he realized who else was in the room. Crowley continued, "There's a demon in the Pit. Well, what's left of her meatsuit. Dispose of it. Then report back when you're finished. I'll be in my throne room. I might have another errand for you if you do not disappoint me."

"Of-of course, my liege. Right away."

Crowley turned back to Alal. "I hope you'll forgive if I steal your hired help for a bit."

Alal laughed. "Is the King asking _my_ permission?"

"Merely extending a courtesy. Any competent leader knows better than to alienate their most valuable subjects."

Alal smirked, as if to say they knew exactly the game the two of them were playing and wasn't fooled for a minute, then waved a diamond-bangled arm in Crowley and Tumblety's direction. "Take him. I believe Jonathan and I have business to attend to."

"Don't let me interrupt," Crowley said, giving a mock-bow, and left Alal to their pleasures.

Crowley was back in his throne room, pretending to listen to a soul yield report, when one of the minions guarding the door approached and whispered in his ear, "Sire, the ghost you summoned is here."

"He can wait." Crowley flicked his fingers away and the demon retreated back to her post.

An excruciating ten minutes later—really, he should inquire as to whether this would be a viable form of torture, something akin to the endless DMV line he'd first created when taking over Hell—he beckoned a nervous-looking Francis Tumblety into the throne room.

"Your Majesty," the ghost said, bowing awkwardly. 

"Has the traitor been disposed of as I requested?"

"Yes, Sire. I—"

"I did not ask for commentary." Crowley turned to his minions. "Leave us."

Two had the audacity to look shocked, and one even protested. "But, sir—"

"While I'm touched that you are this concerned for my well-being," Crowley drawled, "I would hope that you are not implying that I could possibly be in danger from a lowly non-demonic soul."

"Of course not. Sire." The protesting demon bowed, and retreated from the room with the others.

From beside his throne, his aging hellhound Brutus raised his head. The 'hound might be old, but he was still eager to do his job, though not as eager as the new pup he'd acquired after the Winchesters had killed his last hunter and soul-gatherer. Brutus whuffed at Juliet to calm her, and she settled on her haunches, though she still growled in Tumblety's general direction.

Tumblety shifted from non-corporeal foot to the other. Crowley stared at him, let the silence build until it seemed the ghost would snap.

"Francis Tumblety."

"Yes? Uh...Sire?"

"I hear you made quite a name for yourself in life." Idly, Crowley scratched Juliet's head, and the pup's tongue lolled out. It might have been endearing to the average observer had this not revealed her incredibly sharp fangs.

Tumblety fidgeted, obviously unsure whether to confirm or deny the rumors.

"Of course, Jack the Ripper's exploits were legendary and that reputation would certainly open doors here for an enterprising soul." Crowley studied the ghost. "It would be hard to resist playing into the assumptions, would it not?"

"Sire, I—"

"You are not Jack the Ripper, Tumblety. We can drop the pretenses." He steepled his fingers in front of him. 

"I can assure you, my liege, that my sins—"

"Were likely just bad enough to ban you from the Pearly Gates but were hardly at the level of depravity that you like to pretend to. Hung around the wrong crowd, did you?"

"Something of that sort." Tumblety bowed his head. "On Earth, it was a case of wrong place, wrong time. Here, people assumed, and I didn't see much reason to contradict them if it meant I could get off the rack."

Crowley nodded and rose from his throne. He crossed the room to the sideboard where he kept a bottle of Craig. Pouring himself a few fingers, he said, "Other kings might have seen this as a weakness. You're lucky. I can appreciate a man who understands the value of taking every advantage offered."

"Of course," Tumblety said, unconvincingly, obviously confused or unsure of what exactly this little _tête-à-tête_ was all about. 

He took a sip of the Craig. "I assume that the real Jack the Ripper is somewhere here among the damned?"

Tumblety nodded. 

"And he's aware that you have taken his title and reputation?"

"He...he has always preferred obscurity, Sire."

Interesting. Crowley was curious to know what exactly their connection had been in life, because it was obvious that Tumblety was far more familiar with the killer than he was letting on. But that was a matter for another day.

"How do you like working for Alal?"

Tumblety blinked, surprised by the shift in topics. "They are...they are quite skilled at their job, Sire."

"I'm aware of that. That is not what I asked." He returned to his throne and sat, resting the tumbler on the arm.

Tumblety paused before saying, carefully, "They are more generous to their preferred helpers than others."

"I suspected as much." Crowley took a sip of his scotch. "How much contact do you have with the other torturers in the Pit?"

Tumbletly shrugged. "Alal mostly keeps to themself, doesn't talk much to the others. But they don't always need me and free time isn't really an option down there. I have a few contacts, I usually know if someone needs a job done."

"Better to be a busy bee of your own choosing?"

"Exactly. Some of the other demons, their requests are...unpleasant." Tumblety grimaced as if regretting the admission. This was Hell, after all—it wasn't supposed to be pleasant.

Crowley smirked. "So I'm sure you were absolutely _delighted_ to hear I had a special job for you."

"I…" Tumblety swallowed. "I appreciate the honour and opportunity to serve, Sire."

He snorted. "You really do need to work on your groveling. I can only assume the demons you've managed to get in with have lower standards or are less perceptive than I am."

Tumblety didn't respond and stood motionless. It was a wise choice, especially since Juliet was getting restless, despite Brutus' subtle attempts at corralling her. She had good instincts, and chewing on a soul would probably do wonders for her training, but if Crowley's own instincts were correct, this one wasn't quite as disposable as the rest. There would be other souls for the pup to gnaw. But, she was still learning and had done remarkably well today. She could use a break.

He reached back to Juliet and scratched her head again.

"Juliet, love, you've been such a good girl today. Why don't you and Brutus see if Connall needs help in the kennels? Papa will meet you there later."

The hellhound's tail wagged and Brutus let out an agreeing whuff before they trotted out together. Tumblety kept a careful eye on the 'hounds as they left, shifting ever so slightly to the side even though he'd been given a wide berth.

"Now then," Crowley said once they were truly alone. "What to do with such a busy bee like you?"

The fact that Tumblety knew better than to offer a suggestion boded well; there were several minions Crowley felt could learn by example. Apparently rhetorical questions were not taught in demon primary school. 

"You will continue to work for Alal for as long as they desire. They do not need to know of this conversation. We have long come to an understanding and I see no purpose in upsetting that particular apple cart. However, should you come across any information while performing your other jobs in the Pit that you feel would be important for me to know…"

"I see, Your Highness," the ghost said with an eager nod. Crowley was feeling particularly magnanimous today, and so he forgave the interruption. "I will be entirely discreet."

"I would hope so. If you thought what the other demons do is unpleasant, I assure you, I can be quite creative when I'm in the mood."

"Of course, absolutely, Your Majesty." 

Crowley expected the ghost to request some sort of compensation for the job, but perhaps he had been here long enough to know that not being tortured was often the best reward; anything else was just a bonus and it was foolish to ask. Just as well—if Tumblety didn't intend to bargain, Crowley saw no need to offer. 

"Good. You're dismissed."

"Thank you, Your Highness."

With a deep bow, Tumblety shuffled backward from the room. 

For a short blissful moment, the room was quiet. No minions, no shrieking souls, no sycophants, no fractious arguing. Crowley sighed, enjoying the silence, and finished his Craig. In a moment, the bureaucratic machine would start up again, or perhaps one of the factions who opposed him would finally grow the balls to storm the throne room, just to spice up the day. But for now, nothing.

Exactly what he had wanted, wasn't it?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Coldest Hits:  
> [Here was the prompt and rules](https://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/post/189416326005/january-2020-prompt-command-prompt-posting-dates).


End file.
